


The Blessing of the Fae

by DroughtofApathy



Series: A Thousand Lifetimes [38]
Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Creepy cave that has creepy mind fucks in it, F/F, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Fantasy, Stubborn adventurer is too curious for her own good, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 06:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DroughtofApathy/pseuds/DroughtofApathy
Summary: Once upon a time, when she'd been but a young girl, a skinny beanpole of a thing with arms and legs too long for the rest of her, she'd made the mistake of wandering into a fairy ring. Too young to know better and too curious to care, she'd gone into the woods for a bit of fun.When she'd skipped out of the forest three days later, her hair – four shades darker than the strawberry blonde she'd had going in – plaited with all manner of vines and bright blossoms, they had been horrified. She couldn't understand why; the flowers were more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen growing in the woods.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: A Thousand Lifetimes [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1259768
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	The Blessing of the Fae

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for a friend.

Once upon a time, when she'd been but a young girl, a skinny beanpole of a thing with arms and legs too long for the rest of her, she'd made the mistake of wandering into a fairy ring. Too young to know better and too curious to care, she'd gone into the woods for a bit of fun.

She remembered nothing about her short time in the land of the fae, but it must have been dreadful. At least, that's what the girl supposed given the reaction of the adults. When she'd skipped out of the forest three days later, her hair – four shades darker than the strawberry blonde she'd had going in – plaited with all manner of vines and bright blossoms, they had been horrified. She couldn't understand why; the flowers were more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen growing in the woods.

They wouldn't come out. No matter how her mother tugged and sliced, the blooms stayed, to her everlasting delight. The townspeople insisted she was never right again. The children gaped at her in the schoolyard; their parents warning them away. Dangerous, they said. What sort of child could possibly escape a fairy circle with her right mind?

Once, a boy had tried to wrench one of her flowers out of her braid only to scream and pull away as though burned. She'd stared down her thin aristocratic nose at him, haughty even then. No one bothered her again.

She'd always been too much, her parents said of their young whippersnapper of a daughter. She grew up to be too much. Demanded too many answers to questions that had no resolution. Wanted too many things when her parents had none to give.

She grew to be too much. Too tall for village boys to drool over. Her eyes too blue to be anything but unsettling. Her hair too red to remind anyone of anything but blood.

She grew too old for the flowers too. As the years passed, the vines and blossoms fell away until only a few blue flowers remained. Bright as her eyes, twice as lovely, she thought. No one would ever take these from her, she vowed.

She grew too much for the town. And so, the young woman, not a girl anymore, packed up her meager belongings and left the small village behind. Better to find a place where she would be just right, than force herself into a space too small where she could never fit.

As she traveled through the queendom, the woman continued to grow and change and learn. From a talking boar she learned discipline. From a homely village girl she learned love need not include a man. And from a fearsome witch she learned…well, that’s the story isn’t it?

\-----

When the young woman first discovered a talking boar, she thought very little of it. For this was a world full of chatty creatures. It had seemed to the young woman that every other girl in her village had a little talking animal friend. Amusing at times, bothersome at others.

“A talking boar is not so unusual,” she said with an air of indifference flitting about her.

“Ah,” said the boar with a proud tilt of his large head. “I am no ordinary boar. I am the mayor of this town. What I say goes.”

A mayor-boar? How strange indeed, the young woman said. For what sort of town would ever elect a boar to govern?

“There are lots of bores in government,” the boar said indignantly. “Why should I be any different?” The young woman, mortified at her careless words, made her apologies. And then she stopped. Well, a talking mayor-boar…now that piqued her curiosity indeed. Who knew what she might find down the road, she thought? Yet…a boar.

And so, it was in spite of herself that young woman decided – just for a spell – to stay. And for a time, the young woman’s curiosity was satisfied. With the talking boar at her side, she learned and changed, and the town grew stronger for it. But the world must have been more than governing, taxes, and talking mayor-boars, the young woman thought.

This little corner of the queendom had served her well. But, thought the young woman, what was just down the road could serve her better. It might not, but if she never moved forward, she would always be held back.

The talking mayor-boar begged her to stay. “Remain by my side and you can have all you’ve ever wanted. You’ll have power and influence, and a place beside me, and a town underneath your rule. I’ll give you a chance to make a difference in this town before you, and the tools you need to grow. You’ll have days full of importance, and nights of ponderance, no one beholden, just you and me playing the game.”

But the young woman could not imagine a life spent behind the desk, her work dedicated to a town no better or worse than her own. So, bidding her old mentor goodbye, the young woman set off down the road, ready to face her journey. She did not notice as the brightest blue flower she had fluttered to the ground behind her.

As the years went by, so too did the young woman’s adventures. Until at last, storm-tossed and soaked to the bone, the woman – a little older, a little wiser – stumbled upon a quaint little village. She steeled herself for a night of huddling against the wind in a stable among the horses and hay for there was no room at the inn. But the innkeeper’s daughter took in the pitiful sight and led the woman to her own bed chambers.

At first, the woman paid no mind to the homely innkeeper’s daughter beyond her initial gratitude. The girl was no prettier or uglier than the hundreds of girls she’d come across in her life.

Well, though the woman, at least she was not an innkeeper’s son. But the girl smiled a most beautiful smile, and the fairies must have touched the woman’s heart for she smiled back. It was that smile, the woman believed, that convinced her to stay when the innkeeper’s daughter implored her to remain the next morning. The coquettish mystery behind that smile. How could the woman ever resist?

And the months turned to years. Just a few. And for a time, the woman’s curiosity was satisfied. Whenever the innkeeper’s daughter smiled that lovely smile of hers, the woman wondered how she had ever thought her homely. In the light of day, and under the cover of night, the innkeeper’s daughter taught her more than she’d ever believed possible. About love, about life, about happiness. With the innkeeper’s daughter beside her, she learned and changed, and her heart grew stronger for it.

But…

The world had to be more than just stealing kisses behind the well, and chopping wood until her arms ached, and pretty girls with no desire to know anything different, the woman thought.

This little inn in a tiny village of the queendom had served her well. Better than most. But, thought the woman, if she settled here, she might never know what else was waiting for her just down the path.

The homely innkeeper’s daughter tearfully begged her to stay. “Stay with me, the world is vast and wild. Stay with me and you will never want for anything. You’ll have love and affection, and a plate beside me, and an inn to do as you choose. I’ll give you a warm bed to sleep on in this room before you, and the love you need to thrive. You’ll have nights full of passion and days of adoration, no husband, just you and me; wife and wife.”

But the woman could not fathom a life spent folding linens for patrons, her palms rubbed raw from the dishes she’d scrubbed for people no better than the ones she’d known. So, kissing her young lover goodbye, the woman set off down the trail. She did not notice as the most delicate blue flower she had left drifted to the ground, watered only by the tears of her distraught lover.

\-----

Just as she thought, the world did not cease to spin without the innkeeper’s daughter’s love. Life went on, and so to did the years and the adventures and the thrilling danger and mind-numbing boredom. But still the woman found no satisfaction.

She had flown with dragons in the highlands, and dined with viscounts in sprawling cities. Had rescued dusky maidens from high towers, and jousted with foolish men of all kinds. But each time, no matter what friends or lovers she’d met along the way, the yearning to travel just a little bit farther grew hot in her chest. So each time, she moved on, determined to believe she had made the right decision.

At night, curled up in her bed, she felt the crushing loneliness most keenly. She longed for the sure advice of her boar mentor, or the soft touch of her innkeeper lover. But, she thought with brutal assurance, had she stayed she would have never done the things she’d done. Never soared through the skies on the scaled back of a red dragon, or felt the crystal blue waters of the tropics on her skin. Had she stayed with the mayor-boar, she might never have discovered what love could be like. She had made the right decisions.

…hadn’t she?

It wasn’t enough. Soon, the woman began to hunt for satisfaction everywhere she went. Soon, the whispers began. Some uttered in fear, others in reverence. A monster, a demon, a mythical abomination. Though the language changed, they all spoke of the same being. The witch of the woods, the murderess in the mountains. Someone so reviled, so hated by men, that was someone worth knowing, the woman decided.

The closer she got, the louder the whispers grew. A sinister sorceress, an evil enchantress, a bloodthirsty beast. But also: a savior, a blessing, a revered priestess. And the woman realized that the being they spoke of must have been very powerful and very beloved indeed. Not by the men who spat her epithets with cruel derision, but by the woman who hid grateful smiles.

But how to find her? This mystery of a woman. She had no place in villages or cities, and could not be found by following the paths deep into the forests. The women she asked – the mother who had been desperate for a child, the noble lady longing to be rid of her betrothed, the young girl hiding scars beneath her cloak – had no real answer.

Do not be afraid to leave the path, the mother had said. Let the birds be your guides, said the young girl. Release your desires into the nighttime sky and she will show you the way, the noblewoman advised.

And so, her few worldly belongings slung across her back, the woman entered the woods. She followed the birds, strayed from the path, shouted her wants into the darkness. The forest did not frighten the woman. Truly, it was the only place she ever felt completely at ease. The last stubborn blue flower clinging to her hair reminded her that nothing could harm her here. Not with the mark of the fae woven into her hair. No one would dare, not even the animals or the terrors lurking in the dark.

At last, the trees parted ways, and the woman went deeper into the woods. She did not expect to find a cottage almost buried by vines and flowers. The roof must have been made of a soil rich in nutrients, for flowers of all kinds, flowers so beautiful it put the ones that had once adorned her entire head to shame, spilled over the eaves.

Planted in neat little rows, vegetables of unimaginable sizes sprung up from the ground at the edge of the little clearing, and magic seemed to linger in the crisp clean air. The woman tilted her head back, allowing the sun’s warming rays to grace her features for the first time in what felt like weeks.

The woman forgot herself. With no fear or trepidation, she drifted to the door of the little house, half hidden among the foliage. But even for all her strength, the door would not yield to this intruder. With narrowed eyes, the woman stubbornly sat herself down in front of the old oak wood and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The woman had many skills, but patience was not one of them. Night fell, and the warm air turned cold. Colder than it had ever been before here in these woods. Night fell, and the land grew dark. Too dark to so much as see her own pale hand in front of her face. But still, the woman waited without an ounce of fear in her mind. These were the woods, and the woods would bring her no harm.

Then, just as the sun began to rise once more, the woman saw a figure creeping closer to the outskirts of the clearing. She stood, long hunting knife gleaming in her hand.

But the figure continued towards her and at last drew back its hood to reveal, not a fearsome monster, but a small woman with flowers woven into her long black braid, and lips stained the color of cherries. Her brown skin remined the woman painfully of a long-lost love in an inn a million realms away.

Upon seeing her, the small woman with flowers in her hair tilted her head curiously. She was not a beautiful woman, observed the adventurer, but not quite plain either. She might have been lovely to look at had her eyes not been quite so unsettling. Too black to be natural, too fixed to be placid.

But the taller woman put aside her knife. She dwarfed most people, but even this cloaked figure seemed particularly diminutive. In her hands she held no weapon, but instead a tightly woven grass basket overflowing with secrets of the woods. She was no threat, decided the woman with a slight smile. Smaller, weaker, slower; this woman could bring her no harm.

“Hello,” said the tiny woman, placing her heavy basket onto the soft green grass below. “Are you lost?”

“I am looking for the sorceress who lives in these woods,” the woman answered in a strong clear voice. “I have heard the whispers and wish to seek out her skills for myself. Have you any idea when she might return?”

“A sorceress?” The strange woman from the forest spoke in a soft sotto voice, barely audible above the early morning breeze. “How can you be so sure this sorceress you speak of lives in this house?”

There was something about the slight quirk of her lips, the twinkle in her eye, that told the woman she must have been missing something terribly important.

“Tell me,” the cloaked woman continued with an air of indifference. “What do you suppose a sorceress of the woods looks like? Someone with such power, such a fearsome reputation, why she must be an equally powerful and fearsome sight to behold indeed. I have heard rumors, you know. Of a woman who lives in these woods with serpents for hair. Or perhaps you would rather one with wings of a bat or teeth sharp enough to rip through flesh. If you have come expecting a monster, I’m sure I can accommodate.”

At once, the woman’s features began to blur. The bright flowers adorning her hair melted away as the dark strands turned serpentine, and her eyes shone a devilish red. Her slender, petite form grew to epic proportions, and spindly withered wings sprouted from her back.

The adventurer blinked, and suddenly the tiny cloaked woman reappeared with a faint smile, as though nothing strange had happened at all.

“I meant no offense,” said the woman. Well. A sorceress of the woods who looked as she did. How curious indeed.

“I prefer the term ‘witch’ actually,” said the witch with a sniff of distaste. And without waiting for the woman’s apologies, she swept into her home in a swirl of skirts, the scent of lavender lingering in the air. The woman hadn’t realized there was a difference, but followed the witch inside all the same.

Any person with the right determination might become a sorceress, the witch explained, hanging her cloak on a hook to reveal a simple dress with pockets overflowing with even more strange offerings from the woods. Only those born with the gift could be called witches.

Long ago, witches and sorceresses reviled each other. The former believed the latter to be greedy power-hungry frauds, while the latter saw the former as weak-willed forest dwellers. Sorceresses were little more than lusty women who lured men to their demise, and witches threatened the very root of civilized society. None of it held an inkling of truth, of course, said the witch with an exasperated sigh.

“There is no feud between we witches and our sister sorceresses,” the witch said. “It is the men who fear and hate us who perpetuated such an idea in the hopes we would eradicate each other and ourselves. The women of the world know otherwise. And so, my dear, what is it you seek? Love? Power? Knowledge beyond measure?”

“I have traveled this world, seen nearly every corner. I have known love, power, adventure beyond a child’s wildest dreams. I have lived in both riches and poverty alike, and I have had my fair shares of great successes and abysmal failures. I require none of that from you.”

The witch of the woods listened thoughtfully as she sorted out her many herbs. “But you are not satisfied with yourself, are you? Not happy with where you stand, nor secure in your legacy. Yes, you long for satisfaction and lasting happiness. But that is beyond even my scope of power, my darling.”

But the woman would not be deterred. She had not come all the way into these woods to be turned away. Surely, she said with a flutter of her long lashes, the witch could do _something_ for her. A potion of some sort, or a spell that would lead her to the place she would find her everlasting satisfaction. A witch of such phenomenal cosmic power could not possibly be stumped by the wants of a woman, no more or less great than any other.

“And,” added the woman. “I have never met a witch of the woods before.”

The witch of the woods regarded the woman with a curious gleam in her eye. Then, with that same infuriating air of indifference about her, she drifted back outside to her garden.

“It must be terribly difficult to keep this home and garden of yours so pristine on your own,” the woman persisted. “Surely you must need an extra pair of hands, and I’m told mine are stronger than most. Wood to chop, weeds to pull.”

Acting as though the woman did not even exist, the witch did not even look up as she flicked her wrist. The axe that swung down onto the log, cutting it into two perfectly symmetrical halves, gave the woman her answer.

The woman had not known such indifference before. Even the little village of her childhood had treated her with nothing but disdain. And she would not be ignored. Not even by a witch of the woods.

The woman stayed with the witch for three days and three nights, determined to convince the stubborn magic wielder of her worth. She cajoled and taunted and flattered and flirted, but the witch did not budge. Though, she did become so adorably flustered at the slightest touch the woman gave her upon her skin. The woman did not notice how her own skin flushed at every glance the witch sent her way.

And the more the witch resisted, the faster the woman’s heart beat with excitement at such a challenge. A challenge she knew she would win.

“Well then,” she said on the fourth day. “I suppose if you cannot provide me with what I desire, I shall have to look elsewhere.”

“You’re leaving?” And for the first time, the witch of the woods forgot to lace her voice with unending apathy. “Well. About time, I suppose. Very well.”

“Yes, I’ve decided to return to the only place I believe could ever provide me with the satisfaction I want,” said the woman with a hidden smirk. “The fae did so know how to keep things interesting.”

Ah, that did it. At the mere mention of the fae, the witch of the woods curled her lip in disgust. Such disgusting little creatures, she said, more to herself than to the woman. No self-respecting witch would ever allow a weak mortal to face down those malicious blighters.

“Very well,” said the witch of the woods, just as the woman knew she would. “You will have the answers you desire.”

\-----

In three days’ time the Goddess would grace the woods with her presence just as she did each year. To the worthy she would grant one request. The witch planned to venture out to her altar deep in the heart of the woods and the woman could accompany her if she so chose.

“You may have flown the skies on the backs of dragons, and even survived the fae, but the path to the Goddess is not kind to the unworthy. The forest can turn even the strongest of us mad.”

Perfect, declared the woman with mounting glee. The woods would not dare. Not to her.

But the trees did not like to be challenged. Not even by the one who had thanked them. Never, said the witch with a glance at the woman as they ventured through the trees, had the woods ever been quite so dark. Not even the alluring ball of flames the witch held in her palm could pierce through the black unknown.

No food could touch their lips, no sleep could rest their bodies, nothing but thin cotton fabric could shield their skin from the biting chill of the night. The unworthy would go mad from the unending blindness, drop dead from the painful starvation, freeze where they stood. The woman refused to be one of those people. The biting hunger in her pit of her empty stomach, the darkness that offered no relief. None of it mattered.

But the further they ventured, the more the woman retreated into her own dreams. She did not feel the frigid cold, could not hear the whispers of the trees. Only the witch’s sure hand in her own grounded her in this new harsh reality.

“Soon,” the witch promised. Soon they would arrive at the Goddess’s altar. Soon they would be rid of this dismal existence. Soon.

Then, on the last midnight, the moon cut through the darkness. Just ahead of them stood the gaping maw of a cave. Down and down and down it went. The decent treacherous, the fear of falling even worse. The witch used no magic to aid her, and the woman dared not let either of them fall. Her hands, rough with the callouses of a lifetime of work, gave way to the sharp rocks and her blood stained the grey stone.

When they at last reached the depth of the cave the jagged rocks beneath the woman’s feet had never felt more welcome. Only through sheer stubbornness did she remain upright as the witch began to chant, drawing her symbols and runes with the blood from her cuts.

“I will enter first,” said the witch of the woods as the stones parted. “Count to one-hundred and then follow. The cave will test you, my darling. It knows you as not even you yourself do, and will try to trick you at every opportunity. Do not let it win.”

And then she left. And then the woman was alone. She did not allow herself to feel the fear that crept up her spine as she watched the witch melt into the darkness. She did not let herself miss her steadfast companionship.

Into the unknown the woman went when at last she reached one hundred. Unseen creatures flew overhead, swooping down to snatch at her tangled hair, and more skittered below, biting at her bleeding feet. Not real, she told herself, and the creatures disappeared.

Her skin itched; tingled as though a dozen insects with a thousand little legs each were crawling about her body. But when she slapped at herself in a panic, she found nothing there. Not real, she reminded herself, and the itching went away.

The woman came upon a bottomless abyss. And there on the edge stood a woman. Tall and graceful with milky white skin and hair the color of copper wires, the woman stared down into the depths. Hearing her gasp, the woman who stood at the edge turned.

“Mama.” The woman spoke before she could stop herself. Looking younger than she ever had in life, the woman’s mother held out her arms and smiled.

“Oh, my love,” cooed her mother. “I knew you would grow to be a beauty.”

“How are you here?” The woman asked, cautiously venturing forward. “No. No you’re not really here.”

“The cave is full of the spirits of the dead, my love,” her mother said, embracing her daughter. “I have been waiting for you for so long. You have made me so proud.”

The woman jerked back, wrenching herself free. Not real. Not real. “My mother was never proud of me a day in her life,” she spat, her dry and cracked lips splitting into a bitter grin. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

The other woman’s smile wavered, and just for a moment her eyes shifted. The glimpse of empty sockets, lifeless and cold, was all it took. And the woman pushed the creature who had taken her mother’s skin back into the abyss. The creature screamed, a shriek so harsh and horrible and piercing. As the body fell, the woman heard its bones cracking with each impact until at last it reached the bottom with a sickening crunch.

Not real. Not real.

And right where the creature had once stood, a bridge appeared, and the woman crossed over. Safe in the knowledge that she had won the battle.

The smell of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and sweet pies hit her like a brick wall as the woman entered the next room. A table made of stone sat laden with the most beautiful feast the woman had ever laid eyes on. And there in the center sat a fat, juicy roasted boar. All at once, the woman’s unbearable hunger returned to her in full force. Her mouth watered at the very sight and she greedily reached for a buttered roll, still piping hot. But as she brought it to her lips, the roll turned to dust.

“No!” The woman grabbed for another, but it too disintegrated before her very eyes. The thick chicken legs, the perfectly baked lattice topped pie, the vibrant summer salad all turned to ash the moment she brought it within an inch of her parched lips. Even the goblets of wine dried up.

_Try the boar,_ said a voice in her head. She did not sacrifice her dignity by looking wildly around for a person who was not there. She knew that voice, though it had been decades since she’d heard it last, surely. A mentor, a friend, a talking mayor-boar.

_Try it,_ the voice said again. _You have not eaten in days, dear girl. A little food and you will feel good as new. Ready to face the horrors this cave will throw at you. Just a little bite. I’m told boar is so succulent when seared alive. _

The woman reached out. The juice of the meat ran down her wrist, and the heady scent of spices and savory fats made her head spin. She held the thick slice of boar to her nose and inhaled deeply. The knowledge that this was once a friend, cut into her soul. But it wasn’t, she thought, not really. No boar had the lifespan that would have allowed her old mentor to give his body to this horror show.

And she was just so hungry. Hunger made a person desperate. Hunger bred monsters. Hunger had a way with even the strongest among them; made even the most principled into ravenous messes.

But just before the tender meat entered her mouth, another voice screamed at her to stop. A trap being laid for her. A trick that would mean her end. And with the very last vestige of control the woman possessed, she flung the beautiful piece of meat onto the filthy ground. Soon, the rest of the boar who was not her mentor joined it.

Then, the woman waited, staring down at what could have been her first meal in days. She waited as the scent of freshly roasted boar turned rancid. Waited as the juice on her hands became little rivers of blood. Only then did the room open up to the most beautiful turquoise-colored underground water pool the woman had ever seen.

The water washed away the blood on her hands and dirt on her face. Only after she felt certain none of the boar’s essence remained on her skin did she cup her palms together to drink the cool clear liquid.

A laugh echoed across the cave, and a figure splashed around without a care in the world. The woman stood. Her voice caught in her throat as the figure turned and the face of the young innkeeper’s daughter smiled up at her. That smile. It could have started wars and overthrown empires, the woman had once said.

Her body distorted by the rippling water, only the innkeeper’s daughter’s naked shoulders could be seen. But the woman knew that body intimately. There in the pool stood her biggest regret. The woman she had loved so very dearly but whose love had not been enough to keep her.

And forgetting herself, the woman waded out into the pool as tears streamed down her face. Taking her lost lover into her arms, the woman tried to pour a thousand apologies into a single kiss.

“I waited,” said the innkeeper’s daughter. “For years, I waited for you to come home. Every day I would watch the trail you left on hoping to see you once more. But you never came back.”

“I know, I know,” said the woman, half-choked with her sobs. “Oh, how I have missed you.”

“Please do not leave me again,” the young woman begged. She clung to the woman’s arm like a lifeline as though she was the only think keeping her from drowning in this shallow pool. “Please! Stay with me. I cannot promise you a lifetime of danger or unending excitement. But I can love you as no other. I can give you what you have longed for all this time. A bit of happiness. I will keep you satisfied.”

Safe in her lover’s arms, the woman did not remember the witch’s words. Forgot the dangers of the cave. This was her answer. She was sure of it. Her satisfaction and happiness was right there all along.

“Anything you want,” the woman promised. “You and me.”

“Anything?” The young woman’s eyes glittered with the reflection of the water. “The woman you came here with. The witch of the woods. I fear she will try to steal you away, my love. You must end her.”

“What?” The woman paused. Something nagged at the back of her brain, but she ignored it. “The witch is just here to ask the Goddess to grant her wish. She wants nothing to do with me.”

“She will want you for herself,” the innkeeper’s daughter insisted, kissing the woman’s neck. “I have watched her. How she looks at you, how she yearns. She will ask the Goddess for you and take you away from me. If you wish for us to be together, you must end the evil witch.”

Out of thin air, the innkeeper’s daughter conjured a slim blade coated in shining poison and bid the women to follow her down the pool where she could just see the outline of the witch in the distance.

“She is trying to keep us apart,” the innkeeper’s daughter said with a cry of despair. “Kill her! Kill her!” All of a sudden, the witch was within arm’s reach.

The woman vaulted from the pool, water spilling across the damp stones. But just before she plunged the blade into the witch’s chest, the witch cried out in alarm. That voice, the voice that had kept her sane in those days of darkness. Had scoffed, and teased, and stammered whenever the woman flirted. That voice. The woman knew that voice. She did not know the voice of the creature screaming at her to kill.

“She wouldn’t,” the woman realized, stumbling back. Her first lover would have never begged her to kill. As she turned away from the witch, the creature who looked like her beloved innkeeper’s daughter howled in rage. With speed beyond comprehension, it leapt onto the rocks and reached up to give her another kiss.

But the woman, barely able to see through her tears, took the blade and plunged it into the creature’s back. And the whimper that escaped its lips sounded too familiar. Too real.

No longer a danger to anyone, the creature gave a pitiful moan as it crumpled to the ground. The woman took the thing that looked so much like her first love in her arms and held her as she died. She wept for she had lost this kind soul twice in one lifetime. She wept, for though it was not real, though it was a cruel trick of the cave on her fragile starved mind, it did not make the pain any less real.

She had no soil to bury the body of the creature in. No shroud to cloak it. So, the woman placed on last bitter kiss on its sallow cheeks and left the body behind.

Then, leaving her tears where they landed, the woman stormed into the final room, ready to reap her reward and ready to rage against the Goddess’s cruelty.

But there at the base of the altar were two women engaged in the magical battle of the ages. Two women. One woman. The witch of the woods and an exact duplicate right down to the ragged clothing she wore and the wilted flowers in her hair. Beautiful as it was terrifying, the battle lit up the altar room as sparks of light and balls of fire soared overhead.

“They will kill each other,” said a voice behind the woman. She turned and at once knew the ethereal being who stood before her was the Goddess. She bowed, awestruck and humble. “Prove yourself worthy, dear one. Save the woman you have come to admire so deeply. Who you may even come to love if she survives this night.”

“But-” The woman stared down at her hands as the very blade she had plunged into the back of the innkeeper’s daughter reappeared in her hands, still stained with her blood. She turned to the dueling witches. As the magic flowed around them, the woman could not begin to see which one was the true witch of the woods.

In a fit of desperate recklessness, the woman flung herself headlong into the battle. Both witches cried out an alarmed warning and two identical shields surrounded her as their spells bounced harmlessly away.

“What are you doing here?” Demanded the witch to her right.

“This is not your battle,” said the witch to her left.

“Which of you is the real witch of the woods?” The woman demanded. “Prove it to me!”

But the witches insisted they could not. Exact duplicates, from the hairs on their heads to the memories inside them. No amount of questioning could ever prove to the woman which witch was which. Unless…but of course.

The woman calmly approached the witch to her right and did what any unreasonable person in a fairytale world would do. A kiss could wake the dead, thaw the frozen, transform the cursed. Why shouldn’t it reveal the real witch of the woods?

“You,” the woman whispered as she broke away from the left witch. The wide-eyed flustered awe, the apprehensive step back, the journey her face took before closing off completely. It couldn’t be anyone else but her. The other witch just sighed. Then, she spread her arms wide and stepped forward to meet the woman’s knife.

But the woman stopped. She had already driven a blade into one woman she had once loved. She would not do it again. Just because the witch was not her witch, did not make her any less real. And the woman wanted nothing from a Goddess who demanded such cruelty as proof of her worthiness. Not even the fae had asked that of her before giving her their blessing.

All that work, and in the end the woman turned her back and allowed the witch of the woods to return them to that little cottage with flowers for a roof and a vegetable garden for food.

\-----

“You should stay,” said the witch of the woods. “Just for a few days until you are stronger. The trees are not always kind to those that wish to escape too quickly.”

One day became two, then two days became three. It wasn’t so much that the woman decided to stay; she just forgot to leave. The woman and the witch grew closer and years flew by in an instant. And for a time, the woman’s curiosity was satisfied. With the witch at her side, the woman learned, and changed. And grew content. Soon she could brew healing draughts, bottle life essence, and even put a stopper to the emptiness that had once been inside her chest.

But…

But…

But the world surely had to be more than weaving flowers into her lover’s long dark hair, or giving desperate women who came stumbling into their cottage a new chance at life, or falling asleep satisfied each night, and waking up happy each morning. What sort of life of adventure was that, the woman wondered?

This little clearing in the woods had served her perfectly. Better than anything else. But, thought the woman, far from young, if she never left, she might never know what else was waiting for her. She had been blessed by the fae once, and was destined for great things. Things she would not find here.

When she told the witch of the woods of her plans to leave, the witch did not beg her to stay. She did not weep or argue.

“I could never be content to spend my life here,” implored the woman. “Here where the thrill of danger passes but once in a lifetime. Here where each day is as delightful as the last, yes, but where each day is nothing more. Satisfaction is waiting for me out there somewhere, I know it. I must go.”

“You are foolish,” said the witch of the woods with scornful derision. “All these years and you have learned nothing. The fae do not shower humans with gifts. They kidnap children and turn them out to lives of misery disguised as dissatisfaction.”

“I have been blessed,” said the woman with anger in her voice. How could the witch not see that? Surely she was better than those provincial town children and their ignorant parents who had turned away in fear whenever she came skipping down the lane.

“You have been cursed,” the witch of the woods sneered. “For as long as that flower clings to your hair you shall never know true happiness. You will never find satisfaction in the world, no matter where you look until you let yourself be satisfied. You will never be content until you let yourself find contentment.

“You could have been content to govern your own town, but decided you’d rather see the world. Could have spent a wonderful life with a wonderful innkeeper’s daughter who would have given you every scrap of love she had, but instead chose to play hero. You might have spent your life slaying beasts, or dining with kings, but nothing could ever be enough. Fine. Go out into the world, but nothing will change.”

The woman wanted to scream. How dare this sheltered witch of the woods, who had never seen the world from the backs of dragons, or raised up her sword to slay monsters. She _had_ been a hero, a child of the fae, a living fairytale.

The witch of the woods laughed. Cold and bitter. “You are not a hero. You are not blessed. You are not the chosen one. You are not special. _I_ am not special. We are the same as anyone else in this world. But what does that matter? Go. If it is my blessing you want, fine. Take it. And if you should happen to stumble into the woods one day…you know where to find me.”

The woman left. Without saying goodbye. She melted into the woods, for the first time dreading the road ahead. She could not imagine a life without standing over a cauldron, brewing tonics for women no better or worse than herself. Could not fathom a life not spent kneeling side by side to her lover in the dirt, her hands caked in dirt as she tended a garden no less beautiful than the ones of the fae.

The world _was_ more than weaving flowers into her lover’s long dark hair, or giving desperate women who came stumbling into their cottage a new chance at life, or falling asleep satisfied each night, and waking up happy each morning, but the woman no longer cared.

And so, wrenching the final blue flower from her hair, the woman turned. She strayed from the path, chased after the birds, voiced her greatest desire to the nighttime sky, until at last, the little cottage and the tidy garden and the lovely witch of the woods came into view.

And the woman returned home. For the first time in her life, content. For the first time, satisfied. For the first time, not too much.

She had power and influence and a place beside her love, and a garden underneath her rule. She was given a chance to make a difference in the lives before her, and the tools she needed to grow. She had days full of importance, and nights of ponderance, no one beholden, just the her and the witch fixing the game.

She had love and affection, and a plate beside her love, and a cottage to do as she chose. She was given a warm bed to sleep on in the room before her, and the love that she needed to thrive. She had nights full of passion and days of adoration, no husband, just her and the witch of the woods. Wife, and wife. Not heroes. Not monsters. Not special. Just the same as anybody else. And the woman and the witch lived happily ever after.


End file.
